When we got married, I felt like the luckiest person alive. It had always been my dream to get married before 30. So, when my fiancé started acting weird a few months before the wedding, I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t try to figure out why. I just waited patiently for him to get back to normal. And eventually, he did—or so I thought. We went ahead and got married.

A few months into our marriage, he came home very late from work. I was nervous about questioning him, but I finally gathered the courage to ask.

“I met Laura again,” he said casually, a big grin on his face. “We had a long chat. It was nice catching up with her.”

He said it so happily that I felt a sharp sting of disrespect. Laura was his ex—the one who broke up with him and left him hanging, hoping she’d come back. She didn’t. Instead, he found me, and we got married.

I didn’t complain. I told myself it would be a one-time thing. But I was wrong.

It became a habit.

One day, he called me and said, “Honey, don’t expect me tonight. Laura invited me to a church service—it’s an all-night service.”

This time, I couldn’t keep calm. I snapped.

“Why are you following your ex and neglecting your wife? Where’s the church? I’m coming over!” I exploded over the phone.

“Why? You think I’m lying?” he yelled back.

“Yes! Yes, I think you’re lying!”

I was at my limit. I couldn’t take his nonsense anymore. He hung up on me, but later, he sent me the name of the church. Determined to get to the bottom of things, I went there myself.

When I arrived, I saw him and Laura sitting together. She welcomed me warmly, as if nothing was out of place.

“Kwabena said you wanted to come, so I told him to send you the location,” she said with a smug smile.

I felt humiliated. They sat side by side like a happy couple, while I sat behind them, fuming in silence.

Then came the meals.

He started bringing home storage bowls of prepped food.

“Laura cooked them,” he would announce proudly.

“So, what’s wrong with my cooking, Kobee?” I asked, my voice shaking with hurt.

“Nothing. I just enjoy her meals,” he replied casually.

“Should I stop cooking then?”

“If you want to,” he shrugged.

His indifference cut deep, but I swallowed the pain and kept going.

One day, while I was at work, he called me again.

“Will you be home early today?” he asked.

“I guess so. Why?”

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“Laura came over, and I thought it’d be awkward if you came to meet her here. So, take your time.”

I was furious, but I’d grown used to his nonsense. I just said, “Okay.”

That evening, I got home earlier than usual. He made me wait outside until Laura decided to leave. When I finally went inside, I didn’t say a word. I went to the fridge, grabbed one of Laura’s meals, and ate it.

To my surprise, it tasted good.

I had accepted my fate. Laura wasn’t the side chick or the ex. I was.

He had married me, but I was the one he was hiding. Laura was the one he proudly took out, the one he prioritized.

I started seeking my own distractions. Thank God I hadn’t cut off my friends when I got married. I started hanging out with them, reclaiming some sense of happiness. At home, we lived like tenants. He even moved into another room “for privacy.”

It broke my heart.

I lost weight. I was deeply unhappy.

One day, he told me Laura was coming over and asked me to stay in my room. But when she arrived, I was the one who opened the door.

Her smile faltered when she saw me.

“Is Kwabena around?” she asked, her voice uncertain.

“He stepped out to buy something. You can wait for him,” I said, stepping aside to let her in.

As she sat awkwardly in the living room, she turned to me and asked, “So, how’s married life?”

I stopped in my tracks. Her question stung, but I wasn’t going to let her see me broken.

“Married life is great, especially when you marry a man who values his exes,” I said with a bitter smile. “Kobee loves his exes, so I’m sure when you two marry, you’ll enjoy it very much.”

“Marry?” she repeated, her face clouded with guilt. “Do you intend to leave him?”

“Does it matter?” I replied. “Just have fun. At some point, you’ll both understand how it feels.”

Satisfied, I left her sitting there.

Later that night, he came to me, looking apologetic. He tried to move back into our room, but I had already moved out.

I wanted to be a wife. I dreamed of a loving marriage. But here I was, reduced to the side chick in my own home.

Now, I’m at a crossroads. Should I forgive him or divorce him?

I don’t know yet. But one thing is certain—I’ll figure it out, step by step.